Between Two Lungs
by Leigh Adams15
Summary: Ron hates a lot of things in life.  His blonde secret isn't one of them.


**Title**: Between Two Lungs (1/1)

**Author**: Leigh

**Characters**: Ron Weasley/Gabrielle Delacour

**Rating**: PG-13

**Word Count**: 1,400

**Summary**: Ron hates a lot of things in life. His blonde secret isn't one of them.

**Author's Notes**: Written as part of the 2011 Wishlist event at rarepair_shorts.

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><p>Springtime in Paris was <em>nothing<em> like its reputation, Ron thought as he trudged up the narrow stairs towards the small room overlooking the Rue de Charonne. He was sure that all the photos he'd seen of blue skies, blossoming trees, and couples in the park were doctored by some sort of spell. Every time he'd visited the City of Lights, it had been raining.

Ron hated the rain.

He hated a lot of things in his life, though. He hated being an Auror, but the pay was good. He hated his flat in Whitechapel, where the smells of Indian and Bangladeshi foods were so strong they permeated everything he owned. He hated his mother's constant owls, nagging him about settling down and popping round to visit his nieces and nephews.

He didn't hate his nieces and nephews, though. Not at all. But he did hate the constant reminders that he had yet to provide Molly Weasley with grandchildren.

But most of all, there were days when he really hated his best friend. No, scratch that. He didn't hate Harry. Of all the people in the world, Ron knew better than anyone that Harry didn't like the spotlight that had been thrust upon him during infancy, and that he would prefer more than anything to live a quiet, low-key life. But that wasn't possible.

No, what Ron hated was the fact that he seemingly had no identity of his own. He wasn't Ron Weasley, senior Auror and Chudley Cannons super fan. He was Ron Weasley, Harry Potter's best friend and plucky sidekick. He lived his life in Harry's shadow, and he _hated_ it.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he magicked away the raindrops from his robes and turned the antiquated knob, listening to the wooden door creak in protest as he pushed it open. He made a mental note—not for the first time—to see to getting that fixed.

Unlike everything else, though, he didn't hate that. He was just annoyed by it.

"You are late."

The words, spoken in heavily accented English, echoed throughout the tiny bedroom, and Ron's gaze moved through the smoky haze towards the window. She was smoking again—on a regular basis, she probably inhaled more smoke than oxygen—and the air was heavy with the smell of it. Cigarette smoke, mixed with the light scent of lavender perfume and some other floral concoction that came from her shampoo.

It was a mixture unique to the woman it surrounded: Gabrielle Delacour.

"Sorry," he said, slipping off his official Auror robes. Laying them over a rickety chair, he glanced over at her. "Hermione called."

The sound of his ex-girlfriend's name made her back visibly stiffen, as if merely mentioning Hermione Granger could conjure her to their hideaway. Gabrielle didn't like Hermione, never had, and she made no bones about the fact. After years of friendship—and then years as a couple—Ron found it refreshing. He still cared about her, of course; it was nearly impossible to _stop_ caring about someone after sixteen years of friendship.

But there were days—like today—that he really, really didn't like her.

"_Ah bon?_" she asked, her tone light as she lit up another Gauloises. "And what did she want?"

Ron shrugged as he crossed the room to her, plucking the cigarette from between her lips. "Just to 'see how I was doing,' make sure I was alright."

Gabrielle gave an un-ladylike snort and swatted at him, snatching her cigarette back and taking a long inhale before he could steal it away again. "And 'ow ees _she_?" she asked, her tone indicative of the fact that she could care less how Hermione was doing. "Ees she enjoying 'er time in Bulgaria with Monsieur Krum?"

"I didn't ask," he answered shortly.

The blonde shrugged and exhaled, expelling a cloud of sickly sweet smoke. "_Quel dommage_. I was 'oping to 'ear more about at ze Varna Necropolis."

With an irritated scowl, Ron grabbed the cigarette once more and tossed it to the floor, stamping it out with his boot. Gabrielle was deliberately poking at sore spots to get a rise out of him and, predictably, he'd let her. But she wasn't the only one who could play that game.

"And how is Fleur?" he asked, _too_ politely to be sincere. "I haven't seen her since she and Bill last had us round for dinner. That _bouillabaisse_ she fixed was probably one of the best things I've ever eaten."

The willowy blonde glared at him, her lips white and thin with irritation. "My seester ees my seester," she said, waving a hand at him. "You know zis. Why do you ask?"

He shrugged, giving her a bland smile. "Just brotherly concern for my sister-in-law. It can't be easy, what with raising the girls and running a successful business in Diagon. I can't imagine how she does it sometimes."

"_Je m'en fous_," Gabrielle replied, narrowed eyes meeting his gaze. Flat footed, she was at eye level; in heels, she would tower over him. "Fleur ees perfect, and I am…_peu importante_, _d'ac?_" Stepping to the side, she tried to push past him, but he reached out to stop her, long fingers encircling her slim wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"_Va t'en_," she snapped, jerking futilely against his grip. "I do not wish to be 'ere anymore."

Tugging at Gabrielle's arm pulled her into him, and Ron's free arm wrapped around her slim waist, holding her to him. Ducking his head, he ran his nose along the column of her neck and inhaled her scent. "Do you really want to go?" he murmured, lips twitching when he felt her shiver.

"_Oui_," she hissed as she tried to wiggle free. "I am not my seester, and zat is who you want. _Pas moi._"

Ron couldn't help it, snickering against her soft skin. "And what gave you the impression that I wanted Fleur? I mean, I did—when I was fourteen. But she's my sister-in-law, and that's just off."

"_Parce-que_ you are always talking about 'ow perfect she ees, and 'ow good she is cooking, and 'er business is wonderful. And zen zere ees me, Gabrielle, who does not 'ave a steady job, and I cannot do ze cooking at all, and you do not like my cigarettes…"

"Because they smell. And your English is deplorable, and no, you can't cook worth a damn, but I still like _you_, Gabrielle." Letting go her wrist, he reached up to cup her chin and turn her face to his. "You drink like a fish, smoke like a chimney, and I'd rather have you than your sister any day of the week."

Her struggling slowed long enough for him to tighten his grasp on her, pulling her body flush against his. "This is the part where you tell me something similar, like how you like being with me because I'm me and not because I'm Harry Potter's best friend," he murmured against her ear.

"Eef I wanted 'Arry Potter, I could _'ave_ 'Arry Potter," she sniffed, turning her head to the side to glance at him down her upturned nose. "I like you and not 'im, _chéri_, even eef you snore at night, and you are not wanting to tell your mother or your friends zat we are fucking, and you cannot tell ze difference between a merlot and a burgundy—"

"I get your point," he said, cutting her off before she could continue to list his undesirable qualities. He knew he snored, and he couldn't tell the difference between red wines—honestly, they were both red and bitter. What the bloody hell was she expecting? Telling their families… they could discuss that later. Bypassing further conversation, his hand slipped to cradle the back of her head, fingers carding through her long blonde hair. "You like me, and I like you. Is that the gist of it?"

Gabrielle hesitated, then nodded. "_Oui_. _C'est tout_."

He grinned and turned them around, walking her backwards towards the rickety old bed in the middle of the room. "Then what do you say we get to a bit of fucking before I have to get back to London?"

"I knew zere was a reason zat I wanted you."


End file.
